


end of the road

by reneewvlkers



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Slow Burn, but there's still some violence, not treatment drugs for once but recreational drugs, of course there is, things are generally less violent than canon, things are less violent with guitars than murder hockey right?, things get gay in ways you shouldn't expect for an andreil fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 22:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10370553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reneewvlkers/pseuds/reneewvlkers
Summary: Neil loves music, and he never feels more alive than being surrounded by a song that sounds like him. Something inside of him resonates to every chord, every note, every word of the Monsters’ songs, and that something is what made him pick up on Kevin and follow his movements. Kevin is what he could have been, and the music is their link. It’s as dangerous as it is intoxicating.(Neil's just trying to avoid the bright lights of tour, but it's hard when everyone's living on top of each other and, despite the existence of one Andrew Minyard, he's managed to make himself the resident mystery.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> _but al, don't you have another wip you should be updating?_ hahahaha anyway
> 
> some helpful links -
> 
> following on from [this](http://lailadermott.co.vu/post/153925939185/oh-i-recognise-you-the-rock-star-sex-drugs) i wrote and posted within an hour one night
> 
> inspired at least in part by [this amazing piece of art](http://axdreil.tumblr.com/post/157411718170/au-where-the-monsters-are-actually-a-band-and) that i'm using for cover art, like, everywhere because lauren is so talented it hurts
> 
> and [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/reneewvlkers/playlist/6P3q6ND1HQ5No8wTM0Nl5i)'s a playlist i've been working on with the help of my wonderful beta [nooly](http://kickfoxing.tumblr.com/) and the lovely [syeda](http://audreil.tumblr.com/)! this will be added to as i continue writing; it includes songs that i think apply to the scenario, the characters, that would be on neil's Soundtrack To Life, or songs that just fit the vibe i'm going for. it will also include, without fail, every song i mention in the fic. good luck figuring out which song is which. but if you have any suggestions for the playlist, please let me know!!

“Neil, yes?” A blonde man, who looks startlingly, terrifyingly familiar, says.

Neil makes a confused gesture, hoping his panic isn’t immediately evident. He’d ditched his name badge as soon after training as he could. “Yeah? And you are?”

The man raises his eyebrows, unimpressed by- something; Neil’s attempt at covering his fear, his lack of recognition, his appearance. The blank looks jars a memory, a still face in a shot of moving colours and lights.

“Oh, I recognise you. The rock star. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, yeah?” Neil asks, with an almost ironic blank smile. He’s known too many of the type not to be jaded by them. They’re all the same; preaching about how it's all _for the music_ , how it’s about _integrity_ and _authenticity_ and, above all, about _the sound_. Then they fall into the pit of fame, or lack of it, and- well, at least the downward spirals sometimes vary. Alcohol, drugs, abuse, adultery, mental instability - Neil’s seen it all. He’s been on the receiving end of the worst of it.

Well, Neil hasn’t. But his old personas have. Neil’s just here for his pay; low wage, but cash under the table, no questions asked. He was hired because he doesn’t flinch at any face that comes through the door, injured, famous, tattooed, infamous, whatever.

But the other man just stares. The calm on his face has to be manufactured somehow, because not a single muscle on his face moves. _Drugs,_ Neil thinks, then remembers who he’s looking at. Andrew, he guesses, of the Monsters. _Mental instability_ , he corrects himself before taking in the cracker dust he ordered. _Mental instability_ and _drugs._

“You play guitar?” Maybe-Andrew asks, blatantly ignoring Neil’s question.

“What?” Neil asks, hoping his panic is covered by how out-of-the-blue the question is. “No.”

“Don’t lie,” Andrew replies, and it’s only then Neil realises that the blank tone Andrew had spoken it meant it hadn’t been a question. “We heard you. Yesterday.”

“We?” Neil casts his mind back frantically, and… yes. He picked up a guitar someone had left at a booth to pull into safety, and when there was no one in the kitchen, he’d strummed. It had been the end of his shift and he was supposed to lock up. He had thought he’d been alone. _Stupid_ , he thinks.

Andrew ignores that. “Our guitar tech just got arrested and we’re going on tour tomorrow. There’s no one we can get, so that means we need anyone who knows their way around a guitar. That means you.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Neil shakes his head. He’s not getting on a stage. Not again.

“Why not?”

Neil guesses pushing the _I don’t play_ line will get him nowhere. Andrew has already proven himself to be the type to respond to obvious lies with the even more obvious truth. “I’m not good enough for the Monsters.”

“True, but irrelevant,” another voice says, and Neil wishes people would respect the closed sign.

Kevin Day. A shiver runs down Neil’s spine and it’s by instinct alone that he suppresses it. He shouldn’t be surprised. Andrew wouldn't recruit anyone to the band; he’s notorious for not caring one iota about the music. Kevin, however, is arguably the only thing or person Andrew Minyard cares about. Neil stumbles through the words, “I have a job. I have a life. I can’t just leave.”

Kevin looks derisive when Neil looks up past his overgrown hair, but he doesn’t see any spark of recognition in those familiar green eyes. That’s a small comfort, even against the sinking feeling of certainty that he’s fighting a losing battle; an all too familiar feeling. “You work at a sleazy diner. I could pay you more just from what I’ve got on hand. And you’re closing up at 3am. What kind of life?”

Neil sticks to his side even though he is rapidly running out of reasons to. Or at least, reasons he can say out loud. “I don’t want to. I don’t care about music.”

“Don’t let that stop you,” Andrew says, no forced cheer. It almost sounds more like a threat than a sardonic attempt at humour.

Kevin scoffs, “You like the music.”

“You don’t know me,” Neil lies.

Kevin throws a large, rounded object at him, and Neil catches it on instinct. Neil doesn’t know why on earth Kevin would throw a guitar that costs more than a month’s wages at him, but that doesn’t mean he’d let it smash on the floor. “Wh-”

Kevin cuts him off with a sharp gesture then folds his arms, looking unimpressed. “No. You failed to convince me you don’t care.” Then he sighs, “Look. We don’t want you any more than you apparently want us. But we need someone, and the only someone that can be is you. If there’s another person who can even strum a C chord unguided in a twenty mile radius I’d be surprised. We’re not going to take no for an answer.”

“There’s the rock star I was expecting,” Neil says flatly, flicking a short glance at Andrew before setting the guitar down with a suppressed pang of longing. “Look. I can’t.”

“Anyone else who’d ever picked up a guitar and liked the song he’d played would kill for an opportunity to make a living from it and you’re turning down one on a silver platter. Why?”

“Why?” Neil almost laughs. “You corner me in the dead of night at my workplace and play mafia, try to make me an offer I can’t refuse. Surprise, surprise; I don’t trust you, and I’m not giving up everything I have for you. End of story.”

Andrew shifts, and Neil realises he’s in his personal space with an uncomfortable twinge. He acknowledges the movement by watching Andrew, who says, “It’s not even two months.”

“Doesn’t change my answer.”

“You won’t be in the spotlight. We can pay cash. We’ll even talk to your fucking boss, give him some autographs and photos so he’ll take you back after. Mostly you’ll check everything’s in tune and do some heavy lifting. Free food and boarding. There’s no reason to say no,” Kevin says, with the gesture of a man who’s laying all his cards on the table.

 _There’s every reason_ , Neil thinks to the man who’s never had to hide in his life. “No.”

“No, Kevin, he’s scared. He thinks we’re painting a target on his back. Seems he doesn’t know stage technicians are utterly invisible,” Andrew says. There’s something eerie, Neil decides, about cheerful words in such an empty tone. “So let me offer you what you want. We move. Every night, excepting a few. A runaway’s dream, hm?”

Neil stiffens at _runaway_ and kicks himself for it. Andrew notices and acknowledges it but doesn’t act further. He can clearly sniff out how close victory is, and he knows pushing will gain him nothing more. “Can you just leave me to close up in peace?” Neil asks, one last ditch effort. He wants this, and his sense is being fast worn down. He’s tired of this life.

“No,” Kevin says.

Neil sighs, a sharp exhale through his nose. He thinks a stress headache is coming on. His mouth shapes an answering _no_ , a final answer whether the others accept it or not, because he can’t say it more without giving in, and he can’t give in.

But his gaze catches the guitar by his feet. He thinks about how right it feels in his arms, and how long it’s been since he felt that. He thinks of the music - music he’s been able to get through tinny, cheap earphones or in the back of a closed up music store in the dead of night. He thinks of the movement and loudness of a tour, how every aspect of it fills your body, calendar and life, and how everything’s felt _empty_ since he left it all behind. His mother would say no, but she’s not here.

It’s dangerous, but it’s short term, and it would buy him enough to get out - out of the country, if he chooses. His Spanish is still mediocre at best, but he’d learn faster in Mexico or even further south.

It’s only a few weeks. A few weeks of music. With a surge of adrenaline, he says, “Fine.”

Kevin’s mouth shifts into a sharp smile of victory, and resignation settles into Neil’s bones.

* * *

He doesn’t sleep, the ghost of his mother keeping him awake with whispers of bad decisions. His last words to her had been a promise to stay under the radar and to let the radio be the closest he’d ever get to music again. Were she here, he wouldn’t be able to leave his door to go on the tour tomorrow.

As it is, he rises before the sun from a sleepless night and packs his few belongings into one bag. Andrew and Kevin had given him four hours to tie up his affairs, so he leaves his landlord a note that he’s leaving and not coming back, with cash to cover one last month of rent.

Neil knows he’ll see this town again, but only for enough time after the tour to get another bus out. Still, he says goodbye without any twinge of emotion.

He walks to the address he was given, and finds a bus swarming with activity. He doesn’t know where to go or who to report to. He briefly entertains the idea of just leaving, as he should have done as soon as he’d closed up the diner last night, but someone only a couple of inches taller than him takes in his duffel bag and veers in his direction. “Neil?” She asks.

Neil nods.

“Right, I’m Dan. You’re the new guitar tech?” Without waiting for further confirmation, she turns to lead him to a small group of people who have stopped moving for a short time, apparently, to meet him. “We’re your team. The roadies. We get all the fun work. Allison, Matt, Renee, and me.”

Neil frowns. “Aren’t there usually more people?”

“Yeah, but people keep quitting,” Allison says with a roll of her eyes.

“Don’t be worried,” Renee says, casting her eyes sideways at Allison in silent reprimand. “The Monsters can be pretty harsh but if you do your job you’ll be fine. And there are more people backstage beside us.”

“Besides, they’re desperate not to fire anyone anymore. We’re a skeleton team already, and since Janie got locked up- well, they definitely don’t want to repeat their search for you, Neil,” Dan grins.

“Yeah,” Neil says, with a sickening lurch in his gut. Logically, he knows it’s unlikely the band have talked enough to their crew for them to know the first thing about him - beyond his name and that he can play the guitar - but the group speak with such easy familiarity that he doesn’t know what to make of them.

“Okay, we have to get right to work, I’m afraid. I’ll show you where to put your bag, but then it’s straight into the heavy lifting,” Dan says.

“Neil,” Matt says, stopping them just before they start. “We know you know what you’re doing, but any questions, just ask. Any of them. It’s better to ask then to be lost, alright?”

“We’re a team,” Dan says with a fierce smile.

“And if you hold us up at any point, I’ll personally kill you,” Allison says.

Neil thinks it might be a bad thing that the threat was the most comforting part of that exchange.

* * *

The band don’t acknowledge their crew beyond the necessary. Neil expected it, but it’s a comfort nonetheless. He’s spent years travelling from dying, nothing towns in as much anonymity as he could, and he’s never felt more invisible than he does hustling to get guitars to the right place. He wears the same all black the rest of the crew does, and no one looks at his face further than to check it against his ID badge.

His team seem keen to get him to be part of their small group, but he’s careful to talk to them only about the job and go to sleep as soon after each show ends as he can. He’s made enough mistakes as it is, he’s not going to let friendships dig his grave for him. ( _You’re doing well enough at that on your own_ , his mother whispers.)

His luck can only hold for so long, though. “Uh, you don’t want to go back there,” Allison says with a smirk one night.

“Um,” Neil replies, looking between Allison and Renee. One part of him, a small but loud part, wonders if his cover has been blown, not even a week or three states into the tour.

“Matt and Dan are sharing some quality time,” Allison says, and Renee shakes her head.

Neil blinks, and takes a guess. He sits in the small space available instead of going back to their beds.

“So, nowhere you can avoid us this time, little one,” Allison says, resting her head on her hands.

“Allison,” Renee says in a warning tone.

“Hey, I’ll go easy! I’m just curious. It’s hard to keep secrets on tour,” Allison says with eyes open too wide to be innocent.

“Maybe you just talk too much,” Neil suggests.

“Oh, definitely,” Allison says, her smile growing sharp edges, and Neil makes a point to remember that she’s been on magazine covers since she was born. There’s no chance her secrets get out unless she wants them to.

“You don’t have to talk to us if you don’t want to, Neil. We want to be your friends, and if the best way to do that is to respect the space you want, that’s fine.” Despite the apparent sincerity of Renee’s words, it’s impossible for him to trust her. No calm is impenetrable; he’s certain hers is practised, a curtain to hide something else behind.

“Speak for yourself, Saint Renee,” Allison waves the other girl off. “But hey, I’m not gonna pry too much on the first opportunity. I don’t want to scare you, after all.”

Allison’s smile is all teeth, but Neil stares her down. After a few seconds, she shrugs and pulls out one of the guitars they keep in the limited space at the front of the bus.

“I just want to hear you play,” She says simply. “We all know you can. It’s no secret. One song, and I’ll let you be… for tonight, at least.”

Neil eyes the guitar. He’s gotten used to holding them, in the past week or so he’s been touring, but he’s not touched the strings of one more than to check the tension and the tuning. But it almost seems safer to play at this point - he doesn’t know what Allison would want to ‘pry’ into, but playing a song seems the better option. She’s all but promised this will be her only request. He doesn’t know if that will still stand if he denies her again.

Before Neil can decide to reach for the guitar, there’s a groan from the back of the bus. “Please, Neil, anything you can play is better than that,” Allison says loudly.

“Should we step outside?” Renee says politely, her smile, for the first time, looking strained.

Allison thinks for a second, considering Neil, and says, “Yeah. Everyone will either be on their own bus or in a hotel or in a bar halfway across town by now, so we can get a private open air concert.”

With a grin, she firmly presses the guitar into Neil’s hand and leads the way outside. Neil takes a breath and follows the girls, holding the guitar as hard as he dares - it still almost feels as though all of this will slip away if he tries to hold on too tight; the idea of music filling his life again has been a pipe dream for over half of his life.

“So,” Allison says, with a fierce, bright smile. “What are you playing for us tonight, Mr Josten?”

Neil looks past the others into the stillness of the night, and picks a song from the front of his mind. He’s played it before, years ago, hidden in the back of a music shop with a stolen ten minutes, and he’s heard it more times this week than he can count. It’s not the Monsters’ most popular song, but it’s close. And it’s simple, which Neil needs, given he hasn’t played the guitar with any frequency in more years than he cares to count.

Without answering Allison’s question verbally, he places his fingers on the opening chord, and lets the world narrow to him and the music. It’s the only way he can play, without outside noise to disrupt the sole clean thing he has left; and it’s the only reason he wants to play, because there’s nothing else that can shut out the world.

He plays to the sky, and to his heart; even to his mother, who was the first person to like his music, even though she was the second and last person to condemn his playing. It’s defiance and an apology all in one, and that sound was why he was drawn to the Monsters’ music in the first place.

They don’t write their own music, but it fits what’s known of the members. There is the most known about Kevin, which is a given since he’s lived in the spotlight since his birth, but what’s known is almost a cliché. He’d inherited his mother’s legacy, and though his father isn’t known it’s widely speculated that his father must be one of Kayleigh’s many flings through her years in the spotlight.

He played the part of her dutiful, beautiful son for years, but when he hit his teenage years he found his way into the typical downward spiral of alcohol and affairs. When he started his own band with his may-as-well-be-brother, Riko, at sixteen and disbanded it just one year later in a cloud of mystery and hatred, no one was exactly surprised. It’s not a new story in the rock and roll hall of fame. Forming a new band wasn’t a surprise either, but the fact that he fronted it and they were doing almost as well as Riko’s new band - that had been a surprise.

The rest of the band was more of a mystery. Nicky Hemmick is pretty open about his past, but only the good parts; no one knows why he’s estranged from his family and no one knows how he’s related to twins Andrew and Aaron Minyard. The twins themselves rarely talk, just simmer in their own hatred. The only way to tell them apart is by the shades of their hair or their vice of choice - drugs or alcohol; which don’t look so different until you get dangerously close. Seth Gordon seems like another cliché in a downward spiral, except for the fact that he’s not headed downwards. It couldn’t be the band that saved him, as he openly hates every other member of the band, but a few months after he joined, his lifestyle stopped being destructive and more like a simple “I can, so I will.”

The only common thread between the five were dark pasts and the accompanying anger. Their songs are a _fuck you_ , and the quietly regretful thread of them could be something thrown in by the label to make them more marketable - or each song could be the soundtrack of a hopeless attempt towards reconciliation. The theories keep their fans active, and the band keeps active by dodging every last question.

Neil loves music, and he never feels more alive than being surrounded by a song that sounds like _him_. Something inside of him resonates to every chord, every note, every word of the Monsters’ songs, and that _something_ is what made him pick up on Kevin and follow his movements. Kevin is what he could have been, and the music is their link. It’s as dangerous as it is intoxicating.

The songs always end too soon. He blinks at the lights blinking on the horizon, then focuses his eyes on the people in front of him.

Renee is the first to speak. “You’re good, Neil,” she says, the same smile on her face, but her eyes brighter than he’s ever seen them.

But Neil can barely hear her. His crowd has grown in the three minutes it took him to play the song - doubled, in fact, to include Kevin and his omnipresent shadow, Andrew. Fear grips his chest in a vice.

“He’s alright,” Kevin shrugs, as though he was waiting for Neil’s eyes to meet his. “C’mon, ‘Drew, I haven’t had enough vodka to hear our songs another time tonight.”

Kevin leaves promptly, practiced in the art of the dramatic exit, but Andrew doesn’t leave immediately. Neil’s gaze follows Kevin, but then moves to Andrew’s still eyes. Andrew maintains eye contact for no more than three seconds, then follows, but the interaction somehow feels significant.

Allison scoffs at their backs. “Ignore him, Neil, he was listening for more than half the song, so he obviously liked it. You _are_ good.”

Neil shrugs. He’s never cared about being good, just that he can play the music that thrums through his bones. He hands the guitar back to Allison - it feels too much like holding a lit fuse in his hands - then gestures back to the bus as if to ask whether they think it’s safe.

Renee leads the way back in, saying, “You feel the music, don’t you? I think you love it just as much as they do.”

Allison laughs, the sound bouncing around the small space. “Not quite on Kevin’s musical boner level, but I agree. Are you self-taught?”

“Yeah,” Neil says, because it’s safer than the truth. There’s more in common between his and Kevin’s playing than just the passion behind it.

“Was that Neil playing out there?” Matt asks, hair even messier than usual.

“Yup,” Allison says, eyebrows raised high at his state of undress. The motion may as well be wasted for all the attention Matt pays it.

“You’re amazing,” Dan says, who comes out to the front of the bus looking at least a little bit better put together than Matt. “You’re gonna put me to shame. And I’m the one actually playing guitar in a band.” Matt nods along with the compliments, even though Dan’s knocking the band the rest of the crew all formed together.

Neil shrugs again. “I can’t play that well. I taught myself and I never really had the time for it, anyway.” He doesn’t mention how much he’d longed to make the time over the year, nor the illicit nature of every second of practice he’d gotten in the recent years.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Dan laughs.

“We don’t have much time here, but if music is what you want… well, this is the best place to practice,” Allison says, holding the guitar to Neil once again.

Neil looks at it, at the promise of an ethereal calm it represents, but he hears his mother’s voice in his ear and he shakes his head in a belated gesture towards his survival. “Nah,” he hears himself say, as though from a distance. “I know enough to do the job, and that’s all I’m here for really. And I’m tired, so if the back is free?”

Matt and Dan smirk in unison, forgetting the first part almost immediately as Neil had intended, and Matt says, “Yeah, go for it, dude.”

Neil heads back without any more confirmation, but he still hears Allison - who either never learned moderation in her tone or decided she didn’t need it - as she says, “I swear to God, either Neil is the most boring dude ever or he has some sordid backstory that I absolutely need to drag out of him.”

* * *

Neil hates Seth. He is the stereotyped jackass that embodies every aspect of band culture that Neil detests. Each sentence, without exception, that comes out of Seth’s mouth is to criticise the integrity of his situation. The tour bus has too much to distract from the music, Andrew has no respect for the meanings of their songs, the name of their tour may as well be _Monsters Sell Out!_ There may be truth to some of what he says, but he hammers Neil’s hatred home with hypocrisy - they should have never written their own songs because it’s gimmicky, he’s only in a band because his dream career of being a professional athlete didn’t pan out, Kevin’s playing the music wrong because he’s slightly off beat singing an emotional note.

Neil would have punched him if it weren’t for the small problem that every time they’re near each other, Neil’s arms are full of guitar. He has enough _integrity_ not to risk such precious cargo.

One small comfort is that almost every other person on the tour seems to loathe Seth just as much as he does. Even the band almost seems to be trying desperately to tear themselves apart; the tension between each member vibrates with angry intensity.

Dan and Neil are checking strings on guitars one sound check when Neil shakes his head. “I’ve been here almost two weeks and it’s still a surprise that they’re constantly at each other’s throats.” He finally feels like he has the balance of empty comments that can gain him information about his situation while sounding like he’s only trying to make conversation.

Dan laughs. “Yeah, they look like friends in promo stuff, right? As far as I know they’ve never liked each other. I don’t get it either. I mean, for Kevin at least, he’s just here for the music, and it’s good, so that makes sense, but the others seem to hate every second they’re here.”

“The music’s not great,” Neil says without thinking, then backtracks. “I mean, the songs are good. But they don’t play well together. They record separately, so that’s always going to be fine - but you can hear their issues when they play live.”

Dan looks at him curiously, like what he’s said isn’t as obvious as he thinks it is, so he continues.

“Kevin plays the songs the way he thinks they’re supposed to be played, and expects everyone else to keep up, or at least that they’ll find their way there in the end. He has no patience for slackers and pays them no mind. Seth plays differently almost to spite him. He never plays it wrong, he just plays differently, like he’s baiting Kevin to switch things up, so the guitars never work right together. Nicky’s doing his best, I guess, but he gets lost in the lights and glamour sometimes. Aaron just wants to hit the drums as hard as he can, even in the quiet bits. Especially in the quiet parts, actually. And Andrew just…”

“He tries everything he can to fuck shit up,” Dan finishes Neil’s sentence, nodding. “You’re right, I guess. But… every band has issues. I don’t think it’ll break them. They’re still good.”

Neil shrugs. The fans still enjoy their music, which is the main point - they sell enough to keep going as they are. Who cares that you can see the discord in every aspect of their music? “Yeah, but the _integrity_ ,” Neil says, ending the conversation to the sound of Dan’s laugh.

Despite Dan’s belief that the band won’t come to an end through mutually assured destruction, things keep going downhill.

Soundcheck is usually messy, due to Andrew’s habit of doing nothing unless it’s crucial or amusing, Seth and Aaron’s predispositions to antagonism, Nicky’s ability to annoy others without noticing, and Kevin’s abrasive disposition. But Kevin turned up in a clearly bad mood, which served as a catalyst to increase tension in the room until it reaches breaking point.

Kevin barks out an order and Andrew laughs. “Ooh, this is just like the Ravens! So regimented. Everyone in their place, right, Kev?”

Kevin takes a sharp step towards Andrew, and though he towers more than a foot over Andrew, the smaller man’s expression doesn’t hold anything except mild amusement. “You know fuck all about the Ravens.”

“Maybe not,” Andrew says, cocking his head like he’s considering it, grinning like it’s a game. “But I’ve had enough show and tell with you to figure some things out. I know that when things get hard, you fall into bad habits. And that’s no fun.”

Kevin looks like he wants to do- something. His hands are clenched and every muscle in his body screams tension. Neil’s not sure whether he’s holding back or rearing up. But it’s Andrew who closes the gap between them, holding a hand up to Kevin’s shirt, and if it weren’t for the microphones no one would be able to catch the hissed words, “Don’t push it. Or we’ll find out if this will remind you better.”

“He has a knife,” Dan says in a choked breath, less to clue Neil in but rather as though the shock pushed the words out of her.

It sounds surreal, but looking closer he can catch the glint of metal. His mouth tastes of copper. Kevin almost seems to deflate, air leaking out of a pin prick to his chest.

Kevin steps back after a long moment, shaking his head. As an afterthought, he takes off his microphone and the layers of wires, and puts his guitar down on the stage. His mouth shapes the words “I’m out,” and he walks out of soundcheck without a single look back.

Neil watches him leave in a state of disbelief. Kevin was the last person he’d expect to leave practice early. “All that because Andrew- what, mentioned the Ravens?”

Dan shrugs, seeming almost as shocked as Neil. “Bad blood.”

Someone snorts behind them, and Neil turns to see Wymack, the band’s manager behind them. He tries his best not to visibly shrink as he looks back at the guitar in his hands, knowing how obvious it is that he has neglected his task in the drama of the past couple of minutes. “That’s a nice turn of phrase.”

Dan rolls her eyes, “Yeah, yeah. I’m gonna go tidy up after Kevin.”

Neil looks over Seth’s last guitars while trying to ignore Wymack’s significant presence. “Neil,” he says when Neil puts the last guitar back. “You don’t know about the Ravens, do you?”

“Not really. I know what everyone knows, I guess.” Neil’s not stupid enough to think that’s the full story.

“Right. The important stuff is kind of an open secret. Well, everything is on tour,” Wymack says with a laugh Neil can’t quite join in with. “Bad blood is one hell of an understatement. You know the winter Kevin left the band?”

Neil nods. “Kevin suddenly gets laryngitis caused by voice strain. He takes to bed rest for the last couple of weeks of tour, and just doesn’t come back. The Ravens keep going after a few months as if he’d never existed. A year and a half later, Kevin announces a new band with a new label, and all he talks about is the history degree he’d started to get. No one mentions a falling out or any reason why Kevin should have left.”

Neil’s summary simplifies the matter - there were, and still are, conspiracy theories in the media and amongst fans. How could Kevin get voice strain when he didn’t even sing that much? Why not just take his microphone away and let him continue to play guitar to back Riko? If laryngitis only lasts two weeks, why did all of winter pass before he was even seen in public again, looking like he hadn’t seen sunlight or a guitar in weeks? And why did he sign a band with a manager who’s only had flops in the last decade, alongside a band full of infamous almost-nobodies?

Wymack nods, “Yeah, that’s what they told the media. Truth is, one of Kevin’s vocal cords was paralysed.”

Neil gapes. He knows that it can happen, but only as a horror story. “He got an infection that bad? Why didn’t they just say so?”

“Wasn’t an infection,” Wymack says with a grimace, and his voice shifts as though he’s quoting someone, “Paralysis occurs most often after trauma.”

“Trauma?” Neil says, the world fading into the background. He’d never even paused to think that someone had lied about Kevin’s illness, of all things.

“Let’s take things back a little. The Ravens are getting more popular, a never-ending chart climb, right? They book more gigs, start to experiment more. More live shows, more intimate gigs, more acoustic covers. It helps you hear every layer of the music. Feels more real. Fans can finally hear Kevin’s voice without it being hidden behind wailing guitars or lead vocals. And the fans love this, understandably. The man’s good. Any news is good news, but only for a while, until Riko catches wind of a small but determined section of the fans clinging to the idea that Kevin might be a better singer than him. They have a recording, something from years ago, of Kevin performing solo. And that doesn’t play well with Riko’s number one mentality.”

Something inside Neil constricts painfully. He thinks he can understand Riko’s envy, a bit, because he’s heard Kevin singing from afar and longed for the life he could have had, in another life. He wanted to be singing in Kevin’s place. But Riko had that life already. “You’re not saying Riko-”

“Strangled Kevin?” Wymack asks when Neil can’t finish the question. “Yeah. He tried.”

Neil’s hand is on his own throat, and he doesn’t remember putting it there. There’s a tingle inside his esophagus he doesn’t know what to do with. The malice behind a grip strong enough to paralyse the vocal cords - Neil wishes he couldn’t imagine it.

“That’s why he didn’t even interview for the better part of the year. You could hear the difference. And it was a waiting game. Either the voice returns on its own, or it’s gone forever. Kevin didn’t talk for most of that year, only in voice therapy, terrified of causing more damage. He’s lucky he didn’t require surgery, actually.”

“It’s not lucky to have a paralysed vocal cord,” Neil whispers.

“Well,” Wymack says, and shrugs. “Relatively. The Moriyamas are - frankly, they’re assholes. They’re a step below the people who think the music comes first and before anything else, because they’ll turn a blind eye to anything as long as it’s their son who’s coming out on top. Kevin leaving lost the Ravens nothing. And they control a whole label. Getting Kevin out of the contract was hell. I lost hair,” Wymack says, gesturing to the bald patch he covers with a baseball cap. “And I wouldn’t have managed it if he’d had his voice then. They tried to get him back when we announced the band, but they’d agreed the contract was void and, well, it’s too public for them to cause a stink over something they’d already agreed to.”

Neil doesn’t remember any legal battle over the Monsters’ formation, which is a feat in and out of itself. The media craze never seemed to deflate in the year and a half of silence from Kevin. “How much power do the Moriyamas actually have?”

Wymack shakes his head. “More than you or I could ever fully understand. They operate in the shadows. You’ll never know who’s in their pocket until they’re facing you. They’ve got assets under different names, and associations like you wouldn’t believe. It’s a tangled spider web of crap, and I’m just glad I was able to get Kevin out of that.”

Neil just shakes his head, somehow unable to even accept what’s so obviously the truth - logically, he can’t dispute a word of what Wymack’s said, much as he may want to.

“I’m telling you this because everyone knows. That doesn’t mean it’s gossip or something for you to fling at Kevin,” _like Andrew did_ , Wymack doesn’t say.

Neil nods.

“Now get backstage. Show starts in an hour.”

* * *

Neil, and the rest of the crew, look forward to their first ‘free day’ like a man stranded in the middle of the ocean looks toward the first bit of land he sees.

“No fucking concert tonight!” Allison crows, stretching as she emerges. She almost hits Renee in the face, but neither seem fussed about the almost-collision.

“We’re thinking of going out tonight,” Dan says in the way Neil’s learnt to mean he’s invited. “Because we’re nocturnal anyway now. Might as well face the music.”

Matt snorts as they all look expectantly at Neil. “I was really looking forward to an early night,” he says, trying but just missing a contrite tone.

Allison sighs. “Sorry, kid, but we’re not taking no for an answer. It’s pretty much a rite of passage to get blind drunk and lost in a city you’ve never seen before.” Neil’s been to Seattle before, but he figures this isn’t the time to bring that up. “I’ll pay your cover charge.”

“We’ll all buy your drinks,” Matt says.

“If you want them,” Renee supplies, and Neil remembers she doesn't drink.

“I-”

“Would love to?” Allison interrupts him. “Great! We start drinking at 8, we leave at 10. Be here.”

“Where else would he be?” Dan asks, a grin on her face.

Neil decides not to argue. A club is perhaps the best place he could have been coerced to go; it’s too loud for talking, and there’s always a crowd to disappear into. At least, he hopes so.

So he lets himself be taken along in the others’ excitement, and they end up in the sticky heat of a nightclub. Neil’s immediately uncomfortable. He doesn’t recognise the music, which is always a bad sign as far as he’s concerned, and he’s not sure if he’s sweating due to the humidity of the club or if he’s just picked it up from the many bodies he’s collided with, fighting their way to the near-centre of the dance floor. He doesn’t know if he should be grateful for Renee’s firm grip on his arm preventing him from getting lost or not.

When she finally deems a spot as acceptable, Dan screams “Let’s dance!” He can barely hear her.

The lights almost seem as though they’re intended to disorient everyone there, though maybe the people who designed the club had only drunk people in mind. Neil accepts he’ll never be able to ground himself amongst the mass of people, so focuses instead on the one thing that is impossible to ignore - the music. Even remixes have a beat. Apparently the tracks here are chosen to have a beat and very little else.

The oppressive sensations only become tolerable when Neil matches his heart to the drumbeat. He follows Dan’s order to dance and pretends there’s nothing beyond the music - him, the other members of the crew, everyone else in the club are just background noise; the chaos that lets the rhythm make sense.

Then Seth turns up and grabs Allison’s waist. She doesn’t seem surprised, even as her mouth forms the words “You chose this club too?” He can’t see Seth’s response, so instead turns to the others, eyes wide.

“I know, right?” Matt shouts, on a laugh Neil can only hear the edges of.

Allison lets herself be pulled away into the crowd and Neil gets the impression that they shouldn’t follow. There’s nothing two drunk people could do after grinding on each other that Neil wants to watch.

Every time someone disappears for drinks they come back with a plastic cup of water for Neil, which he appreciates. He can’t sing along with the music and doesn’t try, but even so, his throat is dry.

He has no idea what Matt or Dan are drinking, but when it’s his turn to get drinks they’re too drunk to give him a clear answer so he figures it doesn’t matter. He pushes in the direction they point and eventually ends up at a bar. It’s almost quiet in the corner, quiet enough to hear the roaring in his ears at least, perhaps the only sign that whoever designed this bar at least did some planning. He can hear what the person next to him orders, so when it’s his turn he orders two of the same and two waters.

As he slowly regains awareness of his surroundings, he notices someone just a couple of inches shorter than him press almost against his side.

“Neil,” he greets, waving down a bartender who, although hassled, clearly recognises him and rushes over to take his order.

Neil couldn’t say for sure that Aaron knows his name, and he’s certain that he doesn’t care about Neil, so he guesses, “Andrew,” in response. _Is the whole tour in this club?_

Andrew nods, though whether it’s in response to Neil’s guess or the bartender asking a question about his order is unclear. There’s something off about the scenario, which there shouldn’t be. The sight of Andrew bathed in bright, flickering lights or standing still amongst chaos and noise isn’t a new one.

Then it hits him. Amidst every drunk person here, Andrew stands sober. It’s the first time since their introduction to one another that he’s seen Andrew without a lazy smile on his face.

Neil tears his eyes off Andrew, trying to remember which bartender took his order. He thinks it was Andrew’s, who’s now fighting behind the bar to fill two orders before the rock star gets pissed off.

Andrew turns to him. “Who are you?” He asks, stance still casual even as his eyes are fiery intense.

Neil frowns. “Neil,” he says, voice lifting as though it’s a question, because hadn’t Andrew just said his name?

“You’re different from them,” Andrew says, ignoring Neil’s weak attempt at an answer. “You don’t want to be here.” Though his statements are ambiguous, Neil guesses he means the tour rather than the club.

Neil stutters, trying to find an answer, the sounds not even audible to his own ears. The bartender finally puts down eight drinks.

Andrew spares them a glance and puts down twenty dollars. “Ah, it’s not our time yet. We’ll have this talk later,” he says, and disappears into the crowd.

Neil watches him go before remembering his own drinks. He reaches for his wallet, hoping he remembered to bring it, hoping it hasn’t been stolen, hoping he has enough to cover the price, but the bartender holds up a hand and says something that looks like, “This covers it.” Neil thinks she’s lying, but she hurries off before he can argue. He’s barely able to acknowledge that strangeness because of the mystery that is Andrew Minyard.

* * *

After leaving the club early last night, begging a headache and his planned early night even though he knew only Renee stood a chance of remembering, he actually wakes up early the next morning.

He’s never seen any point lying in bed after he’s finished sleeping, particularly with Matt snoring below him, so he gets up and starts his morning run early. He’s been tracking maps with his feet of the corners of various American cities, but he’d known Seattle before they’d turned up. He’s not surprised that the fates would conspire to bring him here again, for days at a time, but he’s resolute to push on past his memories and try to enjoy the city as best as he can.

The sun has only just risen, and the air is crisp and there’s a breeze blowing against him, and it’s just sharp enough to make things feel clear. It seems to drag all of the strangeness of the previous night and the rush of the past weeks out of him, and he returns to their buses for a shower feeling almost ready for whatever bullshit the world may throw at him today. Though he’s hoping for more of the anonymity surrounded by music that he was promised, he feels like it’s far away now, like they left it a few cities behind.

After showering, he finds it still too early for there to be any jobs to do, and the bus feels too small. So he steps back outside into the morning sunshine and tries to find anywhere nearby that he can just sit for a while until all the noise and movement starts up again. The quiet never lasts too long on tour, and there’s a part of him that misses his shithole apartment for the simple fact that he was able to be alone there.

Neil hadn’t known he enjoyed being alone. He’d spent long years missing his mother’s strict instructions on how to perform every aspect of his life, her breath in his ear at night, even her erratic driving on their non-stop tour, only to now find that he craves the quiet. His life had never been quiet until she had died.

There’s a small wall on the edge of their area - Neil never knows what to call their parking spaces. Camps? Parking lots? Bus areas? - and Neil perches on it. He can just about see the sun peeking out over the tall buildings of the city, and he can watch lights on the roads as people start rushing. But from a distance it looks calm.

He puts in earphones and presses play. The simple relief that comes from being able to drown out the sounds of the tour, few as they may be, with the familiar guitars of songs he’s known for years almost makes him sigh. It’s not the first time he’s been able to listen to his own music on tour; they do spend hours on the road, and sometimes the rest of the crew need time to recharge their social batteries, too. But even then he’d be listening in their overcrowded bus, knowing that at any moment someone could interrupt him to ask what he’s listening.

You can choose to share the magic of listening. But if it’s prompted, it feels fake and trite. Neil’s not ashamed of his music taste - if there’s any place in the world where he’d be free of shame regarding the fact that his collection is almost built around the Monsters’ discography, it’s here - but he will always choose to shrug and turn the music off instead of answering. No matter how much he loves music, live and in every other variation, he always loves it more when it’s played just for him.

He wants to watch the sunset come up to his own personal soundtrack forever. But he only gets six songs before someone comes and sits next to him.

He recognises Kevin by his shadow alone, and he stares straight ahead for five seconds before he thinks he should be more polite to someone who’s effectively his boss. He pulls an earphone out and says, “Weren’t you guys in a hotel last night?” He mentally kicks himself. That’s not polite.

Kevin turns his head a fraction of an inch towards Neil and nods yes. “Didn’t bring a guitar. I’m an early riser and there’s nothing to do in an empty hotel room.” Neil can see Kevin’s half smile even in his peripheral vision, and he can hear the unsaid jokes about rock stars and hotel rooms.

Neil nods. “Not much more to do here,” he says, slipping a still-wet, long strand of hair behind his ear, suddenly self-conscious. He’d somehow gotten used to being around the band, but being alone with Kevin is something else entirely. Particularly as it seems almost as though Kevin had sought him out. It would be stupid to think Kevin had come here for Neil, but it’d likewise be stupid to assume that Kevin choosing that particular spot on this particular wall had nothing to do with him.

Neil suddenly aches for the smell of smoke, but he lost his cigarettes in the first week when Allison proclaimed that she hated the smell and threw them out of a fast-moving bus. He could buy more, but he’s sure he doesn’t want to face Allison’s wrath. And Kevin used to smoke, but he hasn’t been seen with a cigarette since his injury. He said he’d been inspired to be healthier since then; having an accident made him certain he didn’t want to cause his voice any more deterioration.

It suddenly strikes Neil how much courage it must have taken to sing again, not least to do it professionally. It’s like Kevin’s proclaiming to the world that Riko can’t keep him down. It would take more courage than Neil has ever had, and beyond that, a heart full of passion for music. Neil would have just run.

“You’re pretty good,” Kevin says, and though it’s sudden he doesn’t make it sound abrupt. It sounds like the continuation of a thought. “On the guitar, I mean.”

Neil gets a strange burning in his cheeks, almost like he’d blush. “Um, thanks.” It’s an underwhelming response to being praised by the person you most respect.

“It’s obvious you’ve had little formal training, though, if any. Your technique is shabby, and your voice is unrefined,” Kevin says, and Neil’s actually almost comforted by the return of the almost-pompous side of him Neil’s come to know. “But that’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”

Neil turns now to study Kevin’s profile. It’s a couple of seconds before he can say, “Yeah, I don’t think I’m gonna be paying for private tutoring anytime soon.” Not that he hasn’t had any before. Not that it hadn’t been simultaneously the most terrifying and thrilling time of his life.

He misses when terror, the taste of copper in his mouth and the percussion of his heartbeat, was layered in music to soften the blow.

“Of course not,” Kevin says, sounding amused. “I know what you’re being paid.” But he pauses, tapping the guitar case at his feet almost absent mindedly, and says, “But I could teach you.”

“What?” Neil says, certain he misheard over the roar of blood in his ears.

“What, are you waiting for Seth to offer?” Kevin asks, raising his eyebrows. Every action is polished, but just shy of the perfection Neil’s seen on TV.

“No,” Neil says, knowing that would never happen. But he certainly never thought Kevin would teach him. “But that’s not- I didn’t-”

“I can tell by your stuttering that you’re overjoyed,” Kevin says, deadpan. His eyes flicker to meet Neil’s for a short second. Neil gets the strange sensation that this is a repeat of their meeting in a diner just a few days previously - Kevin offering Neil his dreams, free of charge, and Neil denying them without any good reason.

“I am,” Neil says, firmly, because everything about it is a fantasy. Playing guitar again, improving, and being taught by _Kevin Day_. But that’s exactly why he can’t accept. “But I didn’t come here to learn guitar.”

“No one joins the backstage crew except to learn how to get ahead, how to make it in the world of music. Having pure motivations won’t make you a better worker. This isn’t an offer I’ve made to anyone else before.” The unspoken _and you’d be a fool not to take it_ drifts between them.

Neil bites his tongue. The only risk, he supposes, is Kevin recognising him, and Kevin hasn’t even looked at him head on yet. There’s nothing else. No one need ever find out, except the people also on their tour. Recognition is still a risk, for sure, but it’s one he risks every day anyway.

And he’d be lying to say the thought of being taught by Kevin Day doesn’t make him a little bit starry-eyed.

 _It’s not long,_ he tells himself, and pretends that’s a comfort more than a fact to mourn. “Okay,” he replies, “I’d love that. Thank you.”

“Alright,” Kevin says, launching into motion with a press-ready, swoon-worthy smile. He offers the guitar to Neil like this was the plan all along.

Neil blinks. “What, now?”

“Yeah, no one’s around,” Kevin says with a small shrug. Which is true. Technically. But Neil knows that the first people to start working will be the crew, Neil’s bus mates. The people who know his name would be the first to see him sitting on a wall with the band’s front man, singing to the rising sun.

But then - it’s Kevin fucking Day, grinning and looking every inch like he deserves every front cover he’s had, offering his own guitar for Neil to play. Offering to teach Neil.

Who could turn down guitar and a sunrise with Kevin fucking Day?

When he takes the guitar, the wind changes as though he’s in a movie - the winds of change blowing through his hair, carrying the smell of smoke. The smell of smoke he’d just about finished longing for.

He looks past Kevin for the first time to see Andrew a ways off, not quite out of sight but out of hearing range, and downwind until that very second. For one paranoid second, he thinks Andrew chose it on purpose to be, for all intents and purposes, invisible, but he wouldn’t have been invisible if Neil had actually looked around him. Beyond that, he wouldn’t have been invisible if Neil had stopped to think for himself for one second that Kevin is never alone.

Kevin notices his distraction, and the expression in his eyes flickers to annoyance for a brief second. Bringing his attention back to Kevin, Neil says, “Your chaperone?”

That wins him a brief smile, but it seems more out of politeness than any humour. Kevin’s on a mission now. “Okay, how well do you play?”

“Uh,” Neil’s mind goes blank. He hasn’t had to formally assess his ability ever; more than that, he’s been pressed to pretend he can’t play more than say he can play well. “I mean, pretty well. I think.”

Kevin’s gaze is unimpressed. “Fine. If that’s a hard question, what can you play?”

Neil shrugs. He’s always been able to pick songs up fast, but it’s a matter of his limited library and access to being able to repeat the songs with a guitar in hand. “I can play your songs, which I guess you already know. Kind of.” He hasn’t tripped over his words this much since the last time he saw his father.

Kevin gestures towards the guitar in a swift motion. Not a question to be answered verbally, then. Neil thinks of the song that he’d felt most accomplished to finally get right - or as close to right as he could make it - and starts to play. It’s still startlingly easy to get lost in the song, even without the words, even though Kevin’s harsh gaze is dedicatedly on Neil’s hands, even though Neil can hear doors start to open behind him. Music has always been his escape from every distraction and fear, and it’s both comforting and terrifying the power it has over him when it shouldn’t.

Kevin lets him get through the song without interruption, but the strings are still vibrating when he says, “You definitely understand music, but your technique is awful, as I thought. Your fingers are never in the right place and you can’t anticipate where you need to be quick enough.”

Neil blinks. The Kevin who’d grinned at him, who’d embodied the idol Neil could never have denied, seems far away from the man in front of him now. “Is that the sort of thing tutoring would help?”

“If you’re a good learner, maybe. You’re going to have to relearn your muscle memory. Forget what you think you know and start from scratch.”

Music is all Neil knows. At the end of everything, there’d be a music shop with a guitar he could borrow, his headphones and his voice. Kevin wants to tear down Neil’s foundations and pull apart what little he’d been able to build for himself, and that’s more terrifying than anything else Kevin could have said.

“If you want to be great, it’s the only way. Sometimes you have to break the bone to let it heal correctly.” Kevin says the right things, but there’s not even a shred of sympathy in his voice. Neil gets the impression that he’s always been the person to sacrifice everything to improve his music, and without a moment’s hesitation - but of course he is.

Neil doesn’t know if he can do the same.

“Trust me,” Kevin says, and suddenly his harsh, almost emotionless voice is intoxicating in his intensity. “I can make you great. You can be at the top. But you have to trust me.” Kevin pauses, letting the words hang in the air, then says, “Give your music to me.”

Neil looks into Kevin’s eyes and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to look away. Kevin’s look is almost plaintive; everything he hasn’t put in his voice is in his endlessly green eyes. The raw emotion, the firm belief in his tone earns something Neil hasn’t been able to give in years: the startings of trust. “Okay,” Neil says. “You have it.”

**Author's Note:**

> next time:
> 
> andrew actually talks to neil, but becomes even more of an enigma in the process; kevin starts tutoring neil for realsies; riko makes his first appearance; and somehow amongst all the busyness of a tour our cast find yet more time to spend in clubs. who even spends that amount of time in clubs? clubs aren't fun? there are better ways to drink alcohol?


End file.
